


Operation: Strip Wash

by eggstasy



Series: The Care and Feeding of Washingtons [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, warning for ridiculous fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6325663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't let sim troopers help rehabilitate you. Nobody will walk away from that happy.</p><p>Unless you're Agent Washington.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation: Strip Wash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrettyArbitrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/gifts).



“I've gathered you all here today to discuss something that you might all find very, very surprising.  It's something I've observed about Wash, and I think it's something we all need to deal with as a team.”  Donut pauses.  “Wash?  Doesn't like being out of his armor.”

Caboose gasps, “ _No._ ”

“Oh my god,” Tucker exclaims.  “You woke us up for this shit?  Everybody _knows_ that, Donut.”

“Yeah, on a scale of normal human interaction to fucking lunatic, we're pretty sure Washington reads a solid Severe Social Anxiety With Additional PTSD.”

Grif snorts.  “And that's coming from _Simmons._ ”

“Hey!”

“Besides, aren't we overlooking something here?”  When Donut gives Tucker a befuddled look, Tucker throws out an arm to gesture to Sarge who, unlike the rest of the attendees, is in full armor and toting no less than three forms of weaponry.  “Sarge is out of armor even less than Wash!  I don't even remember what your face looks like, man,” he says in exasperation.

“That's just how I want it!  That way, the element of surprise is _always_ in my favor.”

“Not if you're always in your armor, dude.”

“Tucker, you just don't get it!”  Donut flaps his hand.  “Sarge is always in his armor because he loves the color.  He's just dressing to impress!”

Caboose nods sagely, chewing on the straw of his juice box.  “I _do_ get impressed by Colonel Sarge a lot.”

Tucker scoffs.  “ _That's_ a shock.”

“Tucker has a point.  Sarge even wears his armor in the _shower._ ”

“I'm surprised you even know what a shower is, Grif!”

“That joke's almost as old as you.”

“Besides, of course I'd wear my armor in the shower!  Taking off all my armor when I already have to leave my weapons behind?  Why, that's practically _inviting_ the enemy to attack while I'm at my most vulnerable!  Inviting them with an engraved invitation!  _Dear Mercenary Scum: Yoo hoo, I'm in my birthday suit!_ ”

“Okay so are the mercenaries in this hypothetical situation going to _attack_ you or fuck you?  Because I really can't tell from your explanation.”

“Wait, that reminds me!” Donut hollers, hands up.

Everyone turns to stare.

“...where's Church?  I invited him to come!”

“Oh I'm here,” Epsilon's voice sounds tinny from the room's sound system.  “I'm just doing everything I can to avoid participating in this bullshit.”

“Church!”  Donut shifts his weight, hands on his hips.  “Come on, your input is the most important out of everybody's!  You've actually been inside Wash's head!”

“Yeah, about that.  You do realize that a good chunk of that social anxiety and PTSD is a direct result of _myself_ , right?  Asking me to help with this is like asking the executioner to give a death row inmate a hug because he looks sad.”

“I would accept a hug from Executioner Church,” Caboose says generously.

“Caboose, if the condition is that I get to kill you immediately after, I might actually give you one.”

“Listen, the point here is that we've got to do something about this!  How many of us have actually seen Wash out of his armor?”

Everybody raises their hands.

“I mean _all_ of his armor.”

Everybody looks to Tucker.

“...what the f- no I haven't!  What're you all trying to say?!  I haven't even- wait, okay wait, there was that one time,” he says thoughtfully, tapping his chin.

“That time when you fucked?” Grif asks.

“No!”

“I've seen him out of his armor,” Sarge adds.  “'Course, he was about three quarters dead for most of it.  Does it count if it's in a hospital?”

“Hospitals don't count!”

“Well then.”  Sarge lowers his hand.

Donut looks across the room and nods firmly.  “Right.  Wash has _definitely_ got a big problem with being out of his armor, and I think that's something we all need to rally together to help him get over.”

“Um, why?”

“Because, Simmons!  Wash is our friend!”

“You remember he _shot_ you, right?  As in, tried to kill.”

Donut sighs explosively.  “ _Yes,_ I remember that.  But I didn't die!  And he's pretty sorry for it, I can tell.”

“Yeah, Wash does seem pretty sorry for all the murder he's attempted,” Grif agrees.  “Unlike somebody else in this room.”

It takes Caboose a few moments to look up from sucking his juice box dry to notice everybody staring at him.  “Are we talking about me now?”

“So.  I wanted to propose we do something about Wash because being cooped up in that stuff all the time must be just _awful_ for his skin.”  Donut turns and picks up a pen, flicking on a holographic whiteboard and scrawling _Operation: Wash Strip_.

“Welp.”  Grif slaps his hands on his knees and stands up.  “That's my cue to leave.”

Simmons follows suit.  “If you need to find me I'll be doing literally anything but this.”

Donut whirls around and jabs the pen at the two.  “You both sit down or I'm releasing those pictures I took!”

Tucker's head snaps between Grif and Simmons reluctantly sitting back down and Donut starting a bullet point list.  “Whoa-ho-ho, okay, _what_ pictures?  Is it dirty?  Are they sex pics?”

“Moving on-”

“Donut I've been waiting too long for this, if they're sex pics you _have_ to tell me-”

“-this is a mission that'll have to be executed with the utmost precision!  We'll all have to do our part to make sure it's a success.  Do I have everybody's cooperation?”

“Nope.”

“Definitely not mine.”

“Present!”

“ _Guys,_ ” Donut sighs explosively, “all Wash has done since he became Blue Team Leader is try to keep us safe!  Sure, he might be overbearing and paranoid, and he might think he knows better than the rest of us in pretty much everything, and he might be dramatic and stuffy and really, really awkward-”

“Any time now, Donut,” Sarge grunts.

“But don't you think he deserves to feel safe too?”

The room falls silent.

“…He had really bad dreams back at Blue Base,” Caboose pipes up, swinging his feet from where he's perched, wringing his hands in his lap.  “We weren't allowed to wake him up because he was scared he'd hurt us.”

“That's so messed up,” Simmons sighs.  “All right, fine.  I guess I'm in.”

“Ugggh, I hate doing this shit,” Grif groans.  “Self-help is so overrated.”

“Betcha Red Team gets Wash out of his armor before you Blue Team losers,” Sarge sneers at Tucker.

“What?  Wash _is_ Blue Team!  Me and Caboose'll have him out of his armor before you Red assholes can even fucking blink!”  Tucker pauses.  “...no.  I can't say it.”

Donut waves his hands.  “Guys wait, I don't think we should make this a competition!”

“Are you kidding?  That's how we do all our shit!”  Tucker jumps to his feet.  “Sarge, I bet you my wall patrol next month that Blue Team will get Wash to take off his armor before you guys can.”

Sarge's helmet tilts back in consideration.  “Arright Teal Deer.  And _when_ we win, _you've_ got to reorganize the armory and inventory the motor pool's storage room.”

Tucker sticks out his hand.  Sarge shakes it.

“Guys,” Donut interjects desperately, “the teams aren't even- well, even!  It's not a fair contest!”

“Donut's judge,” Sarge announces.

“Fuck you, you're not making a Red a judge!”

“I don't even _want_ to be judge!”

“There, see?  He doesn't wanna do it and I'm makin' him do it!  I'm practically _gift-wrappin’_ you an advantage.”

“Captain Pillsbury will be fair,” Caboose agrees.

“Uhh, likewise I am not participating?  Did you assholes fucking forget me saying that?  Remember the analogy?”

“Church I'm pretty sure if there's anyone who _should_ be participating, it's you.  Considering that according to your own analogy, you're the one who's most to blame for Wash being so damaged.”

“You're a low down piece of shit Simmons, you know that right?”

Grif sticks out a hand for Simmons to low-five.  “If we have to suffer, so do you.”

“Fuck you both.  _I’ll_ release those pictures if Donut won’t.”

“What?!  Why the fuck do _you_ have them?!”  Tucker jumps up onto his chair.  “Church, you have to send them to me!  _Church!_ ”

 

* * *

 

 _“A-gent Wash-ing-ton!”_ Caboose sings as he thunders up to Wash one day.  Washington reflects on how Caboose really lives up to his name when he comes to a worryingly abrupt halt at his side; he can almost hear the screech of train brakes on metal tracks.

“Yes Caboose?”  Wash is also concerned that he might have developed a fatherly voice he uses strictly for these moments.

Caboose bounces eagerly on his toes.  “I would like to play a game with you.”

Oh boy.  Caboose proposing a game could mean any number of things.  “You didn’t break anything, did you?”

“No.”

He may have phrased that wrong.  “Did uh, did _Tucker_ break anything?  Or did something break when you were just holding it and not doing anything?”

Caboose huffs and flaps his arms in exasperation.  “Agent Washington, no!  We are just playing a game.”

Well, as long as that game doesn’t include him running interference for Caboose because Kimball is on the warpath…  “All right.  I don’t have long though, so I hope it’s a quick game.  What are the rules?”

“The rules,” Caboose starts, before pausing for dramatic effect.  …or he forgot what he was talking about.  Honestly either is likely, so Wash begins a countdown back from ten to see if he’ll contin- “are very easy.”  There he goes.  “The rules are that armor is lava now.”

Wash blinks.  “Uh.”

“Armor is lava, Wash!  _Oh my god we’re burning to death_ ,” Caboose screams, and immediately begins unlatching his armor, starting with his helmet and shoulder guards before struggling with his chestpiece.

“Cab- what are you doing?  _Caboose,_ ” Wash pleads, glancing around at the troops who have begun to stare before reaching over to try and stop Caboose from yanking off his chestpiece.  Apparently that was just an invitation because Caboose paws at Wash’s armor and starts pulling off his gauntlet.  “ _Caboose stop that._ ”

 _“Lava,_ Agent Washington!  That is like water fire!”

“That’s- okay I see what you're attempting to say, but- no.  _No stop,_ ” Wash finally just bats Caboose’s hands away and slips out of his reach.  He might not be able to stop Caboose from stripping right here and now, but he can at least save himself from it.  “You’re not supposed to take off your armor while you’re on duty, you know that.”

“Except for when playing games.”  Caboose bends over to unlatch his greaves.

“No, not even when playing games.  Did somebody put you up to this?”  Wash would suspect Red Team bullying except that Caboose tends to enjoy everything they ‘make’ him do, so does that even count as bullying?  He’s almost annoyed at how Caboose gets all of his armor pieces off in record time.  Where does this speed go when Wash _asks_ him to put his armor on or take it off?

Caboose looks down at the blue pieces scattered across the concrete, Wash’s single lonely gray-and-yellow gauntlet mixed in.  He sighs in disappointment and starts gathering it back up.  “I win,” he informs Wash morosely, and begins to meticulously put his armor back on.

Wash has to help him with the chest piece.  And when he asks, “So what was this about?” all he gets is, “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” which makes him think yeah, definitely, the Reds are probably picking on him again.  Wash makes a note to have Grif and Simmons run extra laps in training for this.

 

* * *

 

“You didn’t think this ‘strip Blackjack with Wash’ plan all the way through,” Washington says as he taps the table idly, grinning.

“I just have to find my groove!”

“I think it’s over there on the floor, with your pants.  And, y’know, most of everything else you own.”  Wash regards his cards thoughtfully.  “Hit me, dealer.”

“You know,” Palomo says as he deals out another card, “I wonder who came up with that?  D’you think a dealer ever actually did hit somebody?  Like on their last day or something?”

Tucker grumbles and rearranges his hand.  “Shut _up_ Palomo.  You are literally the worst person on this planet, and that’s including all the mass murdering pirates.  You should be helping me cheat!”

“ _Actually_ sir, naked pictures of you might not go for as much as Agent Washington's but there's always quantity over quality!  Soooo, either way I’m kind of making bank here.”

Wash looks up sharply.  “You sell naked pictures of me?”

“I mean, I would if I could _get_ any…”

Tucker slaps down his cards.  “You sell naked pictures of _me?_ Without paying me royalties?  Palomo, if I don’t see a credit exchange request in the next five days, I’m going to shoot you.”

“Tucker, shut up.  Lieutenant Palomo?”

“Yessir?”

“If you don’t stop selling naked pictures of Chorus personnel, _I_ will shoot you.”

“…right.  Okay.  I _think_ I get what you’re trying to tell me.”

“Good.”

“It’s just a shame, y’know?”

Wash slides his cards over as Tucker curses and searches for another piece of clothing to remove.  “Uh huh.”

“I mean, Captain Grif says pics of you are like black market _currency._   Y’know he got an entire case of Oreos for just a few shots of you without your helmet?”

Tucker freezes in the middle of pulling off his boxers.  “Wait, what?”

“ _What?_ ” Wash demands.  “How the hell does Grif know that?”

Palomo seems to have finally clued in to his mistake as he pales several shades.  “Uh.  No reason.  None at all.  I don’t even know what a black market is, I don’t know what he was telling me about prices and stuff.”

Wash stands up.  “Tucker, put your clothes back on.  We’re done playing.”

“Well, I mean, now that I’ve got them off I’m kind of okay with-”

“If you’re not gonna put ‘em back on, do you mind if I take a few pictures?  Captain Grif’s gonna come collect soon since I haven’t made my payments lately.”

“…I fucking hate you, Palomo.”

 

* * *

 

“Hands up, you damn dirty Blue!”

Washington sighs.  No- sighing implies that Washington simply expels air.  What he does is an _experience_ : his head tilts back, his shoulders slump, his entire posture droops and he bleeds exhaustion with every cubic millimeter of carbon dioxide that leaves his lungs.  Washington _sighs._

He turns around and regards the barrel of Sarge’s shotgun six feet from his chest.  “What do you need, Colonel,” Wash asks with the air of a man headed for the gallows.

Sarge regards him with a stone-faced silence.  Or possibly not stone-faced; Wash could never quite read what his expression under the helmet was supposed to be.  “There’s a _disease_ goin’ around.”

“Probably just the flu, Sarge,” Wash tells him.  He doesn’t know.  He doesn’t really care, either.

“Nope.  Ain’t the flu.  I heard tell that it’s a _horrible disease,_ one that rots the skin all over your body!”

“Leprosy?”

“Don’t go makin’ up disease names to turn suspicion away from yourself!”

“I’m not mak- hold on, _what_ suspicion!?  Sarge, I do _not_ have a disease.”

“Prove it!  Prove you ain’t got the skin-rotting-”

“Leprosy-”

Sarge pumps his shotgun.  “ _Zombie disease._ ”

“Oh my god.  Leprosy is not a zombie disease.”

“Prove it!”

“I don’t have leprosy!” Wash cries, throwing his arms into the air.  He glances around them before unsealing his helmet and pulling it off, glaring.  “There, see?  I’m fine.  No diseases.”

“Not enough, pretty boy.  You gotta lose all of it.”

 _Pretty b-_   “Sarge, no.  I’m not taking everything off to prove I’m not a _zombie._ ”

“Wash, son, I like you well enough for you bein’ a Blue disguised as a drunk Route 66-”

“ _What?”_

“-but zombies are no laughin’ matter.  If you’re hiding your true zombie nature, then I gotta do what I gotta do to protect myself and Lopez.  And Donut and Simmons, I guess.  You can have Grif.”

“Sarge,” Wash tries.

“Grif ain’t enough to sate your hunger?!  Well, I suppose if you eat brains, wouldn’t be enough for me either.  All right, you can have Simmons.  He’s got a nice juicy brain, full of useless knowledge that nobody but him cares about.  But you leave Donut out of this!  You won’t get a meal out of him anyway, the boy’s got nothin’ but Cher trivia floatin’ around up in there.”

“I don’t-”

“My god, two of my men ain’t enough for ya!  Alright, you can have Donut.  He’ll be like dessert.”

Wash jams his helmet back onto his head.  “ _Sarge!_   I don’t want to eat anybody because I’m not a zombie, I don’t have leprosy, and I’m beginning to wonder if all of you have something going on because this is the third request I’ve gotten from you guys to take my armor off.  Are you looking to sell pictures of me?”

“Sell pictures?”  Sarge lowers his shotgun and tilts his head.  “Wash, I know you’re a handsome devil but don’t you think that’s a little uppity of you?”

There’s a sure-fire way to get the guys to leave him alone, but Wash generally doesn’t like to use it because it makes them afraid of him.  He doesn’t want to be something frightening anymore, at least not to them, not in that way.  Now, however, between the card challenge from Tucker yesterday, Caboose’s ‘game’ from earlier in the week and now this?  Wash is all right with a little fear if it means he’ll have some peace for once.  He puts on his ‘forced calm’ voice, the one that precludes a pistol shoved into someone’s face, the one he’s pretty sure they call the ‘crazy Freelancer voice’ behind his back.  He doesn’t have to try very hard.  “Sarge.  I’m going to walk away now, and you’re not going to bother me for the rest of the day.”

Sarge stares back down the barrel of his shotgun at Wash again.  “…you sure you’re not feelin’ a little flakey at the cuticles?”

“ _I’m leaving!”_

 

* * *

 

Wash’s HUD pings in the middle of training with a message from… _Epsilon?_

**EPS: Hey wash send me naked pix**

**WSH: WHAT???**

**EPS: tits or gtfo**

**WSH: _WHAT???????/ DID YOU SAY TO ME JUST NOW_**

**EPS: Well i tried**

 

* * *

 

“Wash!  Wash, oh god, it’s terrible!”

Wash draws up his shoulders in what has become recognizable among the sim troopers as his ‘immediately suspicious of your intentions’ sort of way.  “I’m sure it is.  What do you need, Captain Grif?”

“It’s- There’re some poor defenseless animals trapped inside a collapsed wall, and Simmons and I can’t get them out.  We need your help.”

“Animals.”  Living in armor almost all the time has done at least one thing for Wash: he can perfectly convey his emotions without ever taking off his helmet.  “Call city maintenance and leave me alone, Grif.”

“But we think they’re kittens.”

Grif has never in his life seen a person turn around so fast.

“On second thought,” Wash says brusquely, “you shouldn’t trouble maintenance over something so trivial when they’ve got so much on their plate.  I can take care of this.”

Grif can’t resist.  “You’re sure it’s not beneath you?”

“Everybody needs to do their part, no matter how small.”  Washington gestures sharply with his rifle.  “Lead the way.”

 _Oh my god,_ Simmons says over their frequency and Grif has to agree.  Even if this doesn’t work (which it will), it’ll be fucking _hilarious._

There really is a collapsed section of wall, for authenticity, and Washington looks at it very concerned until he hears the first small, plaintive _mew_ from inside the rubble.  Then he freezes, like a prey animal in the sights of a predator and Grif has to silence his internal mic to keep Wash from hearing him snicker.

“Why couldn’t either of you get them out?” Wash asks suspiciously.

“Uhhh…I’m claustrophobic?”

“Yeah and I’m fat.”

Wash gives the wall a scrutinizing look.  “Just move the rubble.”

“And risk crushing those sweet little babies?  Wash, you monster.”

Wash sighs before turning to regard the rubble seriously again, tapping his fingers against the stock of his rifle.  Grif watches his entire body language change when a small chorus of tiny, frightened _mew_ s sounds from inside the crevice.  “Shh shh,” Wash hushes the rubble, probably thinking he’s too quiet for them to hear but he's absolutely not and Grif is recording every second of this.

**SIM: Oh my god.**

**GRF: i know omfg**

Wash finally kneels near the rubble and sets down his rifle carefully, reaching up to take off his helmet and unlatching his shoulder and chest armor.

**SIM: WE SO WON!**

**GRF: i cant wait to see the look on tuckers stupid face**

**GRF: make them meow again**

The scared mewls crescendo from inside the rubble and Wash hurriedly plucks off his gauntlets.  “Shh shhshhh, I’m coming, I’m coming little guys,” he says with this incredibly tender voice that has Grif grabbing for Simmons’s shoulder to keep from doubling over.

**SIM: Knock it off, you’re gonna blow it!**

**GRF: SHH SHH IM COMING LIL GUSY**

**SIM: He’s so into this.  He must really like cats.**

Wash sidles up to the rubble to reach in and Grif straightens suddenly.  He’s not taking off the rest of his armor.  “Uh, Wash,” Grif starts before cursing and clicking his external speakers back on.  “Wash?  Hey, don’t you think you should get the rest of your armor?  I mean, like, what if you scare them?”

The look Wash shoots Grif is both incredulous and annoyed.  He worms his arm through the rubble up to the shoulder.  “How on earth would it _scare_ them?”

Shit.  They didn’t think this all the way through.  “Uh- because, y’know, you’re a scary guy, you’ve got that intimidating vibe, the one that makes you think that maybe if certain feelings were hurt you might try shooting some people.”

“That’s worryingly specific,” Wash notes as he feels around behind the rubble.

“Grif shut up,” Simmons hisses, digging an elbow into his side.

“ _You_ shut up, we don’t have proof yet and he’s gonna kill us,” Grif hisses back.

When feeling around produces no results Wash scowls, scooting closer and straining against the rubble.

“Oh man did they sneak even further in there?  You better take off the rest of your armor and go get ‘em before they get hurt.”  Even if Wash finds out they were lying he’ll be inside the rubble without his armor, so they might be able to escape immediate retaliation.  Maybe send Caboose after him as a buffer so he forgets how mad he is.

“They’re not making sounds anymore, that’s odd.  They must-”  When Wash cuts off abruptly Grif knows their lives are over. 

“ _Okay_ so it looks like you’ve got shit handled so we’re gone now!  We’re gonna go, let’s go Simmons,” Grif says loudly and grabs Simmons’s arm as Wash withdraws a small black object from inside the rubble.  Oh shit.  _Oh shit._   They’re so dead.

“What is this,” Wash says lowly, staring down at the object, which naturally takes the opportunity to let out a tortured, wobbly _mew._

“I didn’t do it,” Simmons cuts in, panicky.  “It was Grif.  It was Grif’s idea.”

“Simmons programmed it and put it in there, I had nothing to do with the execution!”

Washington slowly begins to pull his armor back on, piece by piece.  Grif wants to run.  He keeps tugging at Simmons but neither of them move, stuck like they’ve been glued to the concrete.  The ex-Freelancer slowly rises, fully armored and attaching his rifle to the magstrip on his back.  “I will expect to see you both at training tomorrow, oh-five hundred hours sharp,” he says in that terrifyingly even voice before turning on his heel and walking away.

Grif can’t see Simmons’s face but he knows it’s probably green.  “Oh god.  He’s going to kill us.”

Wash disappears around a corner and Grif glances down at the rubble where he’d been kneeling.  The idea was so _good,_ they were so _close._   “…wait did he take that thing with him?”  He did.  “He’s probably going to listen to it in his quarters.  God, that’s sad.”

“Great.  Not only is he going to kill us, but now I feel bad.”

 

* * *

 

“Yeah it’s not working.”

“Probably because your planning skills are questionable at best, Grif!  If you and Simmons had assisted me with _Operation: Zombie Attack_ then we would have undoubtedly been successful!  All I needed was for one of you to bite Wash a few days in advance-”

“Sir, how could we bite him if we can’t get him out of his armor in the first place?”

“Had a plan for that too!  First, we would drown Grif and then place his bloated, waterlogged corpse in Washington’s path.  Then, we would scream for someone certified in CPR which, as everybody knows, is included in Freelancer training!”

Tucker sighs and flops into his chair.  “I’m pretty sure it’s included in _all_ training.  Literally all of us know how to do it.”

“Also?  I’m not kissing Wash.  Not even if I’m dead.”

“I still think my idea was the best,” Caboose sniffs.  “Everybody is afraid of lava.  Agent Washington is just a very slow undresser.”

“ _Shut up_ Caboose, you didn’t even get him to take off one thing!”

“I did so!  He took off the arm piece part!”

“ _You_ took that off of him, I was watching!”

“Okay,” Tucker interrupts, “so what did _you_ do, Church?”

The little avatar shrugs.  “Y’know, some stuff.  Mind games.  Didn’t work out, he’s too suspicious of me.  _Like I said he’d be._ ”

“You fucker, you probably didn’t even try.”

“Oh, and like your sadsack _poker game_ was any more successful?”

“It would’ve been, if fucking _Palomo_ had helped me cheat like he was supposed to!  That idiot.”

“Heh heh,” Grif smirks, folding his arms.  “What can I say, Tucker?  Money talks.”

“You sabotaged me?!”

“Wasn’t in the rules that we couldn’t.”

“You fat fuck, I’ll kick your ass!”

“You guys, this is why I said we shouldn’t make it a competition!  Now Wash is even more paranoid than ever, and now we’ll never get him naked!”

The door swishes open and there, bathed in the sunlight streaming in from outside (the room had to be dim, Donut insisted, all secret plans become more secret when they’re made in near-darkness), stands the broad shouldered form of one fully-armored Agent Washington.  And he is absolutely holding a gun.

“Bye,” says Church before he vanishes.

“ _Stay,_ ” Wash snaps.  Church’s avatar reluctantly flickers back on behind Tucker’s shoulder.

When Washington steps into the room, everybody leans back away from him.  He paces the perimeter like a jaguar, like a liquid, like the T-1000, as some occupants of the room might note.  “All right,” Wash announces to the colorful display before him.  He grips his rifle because it’s probably his security blanket, and because he’s probably not entirely sure that he won’t be jumped and forcibly disrobed after the week he’s had.  “I want to know what’s going on, _right.  Now._ ”

Heads and helmets alike swing around to regard Donut.

“Wh- _me?_ ”  Donut presses a hand to his chest.  “I’m the only one who hasn’t done anything wrong!”

“You’re also the only one he won’t shoot,” Simmons points out.  “Y’know, _again._ ”

“Agent Washington would never shoot me,” Caboose says with all the confidence in the world.  “But he is probably thinking about shooting Tucker.  Because his idea was so, so stupid.”

“Fuck you Caboose, you tried to rip his clothes off!  How is that _less stupid_ than strip blackjack?!”

“Yeah speaking of, is there a reason why you didn’t go for poker?”

“Poker takes too long.  By the time everybody’s naked, nobody wants to bang.”

Simmons’s head tilts back.  “Okay but the goal wasn’t to _bang_ Wash-”

Grif snickers.  “Not _our_ goal maybe.”

“I’m not trying to bang Wash!” Tucker howls.

“No offense,” Sarge offers placatingly.  “I mean, you’re an attractive son of a gun, Wash-”

“You seriously have an obsession with calling Wash pretty,” Grif points out.  “Do you have something you want to share with the class?”

“Whut, that I’m confident enough in my _unbridled masculinity_ to say that Wash here is hot stuff?  Yup.  I’m confident.  I could understand Grif if you struggle with your self image considering literally everything about you-”

“Sarge,” Grif says warningly.

“Sarge, come on!  There are all kinds of levels of attraction,” Donut scolds.  “Whether or not Grif is completely undesirable really isn’t the point here!  If someone, somewhere, _somehow_ finds Grif attractive even though he never bathes or shaves or rearranges his wardrobe-”

“Thanks, Donut.”

“You’re welcome Grif- then that's none of our business!  I mean, even though Simmons said-”

“That’s enough Donut,” Simmons interrupts loudly as Tucker jumps up from his chair.

“What!  Simmons said what!  God damn it Donut _tell me!_ ”

“I WOULD ALSO LIKE TO KNOW EVERYBODY’S SECRETS!”

“Everybody _SHUT UP!_ ”  It’s the lack of shrieking that really grabs their attention.  Shrieking Wash is just going along with their insanity.  Shouting Wash is Angry.  “Tucker.  You explain.”

“Ah shit.”  Tucker looks away, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Uh.  This kind of all started because we wanted you out of your armor, okay?”

Washington’s voice is heated steel.  “For the _pictures?_ ”

“No!  Jesus Christ, I didn’t even know about that.  Punish Grif for that, it’s his fault.”

“That currency was already in place way before I got involved!”

“ _Focus,_ ” Wash warns.

“It wasn’t for pictures!  We wanted you out of your armor ‘cause like, dude, you’re just- you’re in it all the time man, like _all_ the time.  Donut thought it was weird and we all kind of thought it was weird, like you don’t even take it off when you’re hanging out with us-”

Wash sputters.  “I do so!”

“You take off your _helmet_ dude, it’s not the same.”

“ _How_ is that not the same?”

Caboose pops in with a bubblegum tone, “We wanted you to be safe!”

Wash’s rifle lowers in his grip just a bit.  “…I don’t understand.”

“Jesus Christ,” Grif groans, rubbing a hand over his face.  “We _get it,_ Wash.  You’re hopelessly damaged, you’ve been waiting for someone to assassinate you for years, you’ve been betrayed and whatever whatever _whatever._   But it’s been years with us and we hardly see your stupid ugly mug.”

“It ain’t ugly,” Sarge interjects.

“Okay, so what about Sarge?”  Wash gestures toward him.  “He’s out of armor even less than I am!”

“Yeah but he’s _Sarge._ ”

“What the _hell_ does that even _mean,_ ” Wash asks despairingly.

“Skin-on-skin contact is very important for human interaction!”  Donut climbs over a few of their empty chairs, brandishing a glossy magazine.  “Look look, studies show that people who have daily physical interaction with their loved ones have healthier skin and bigger appetites, and they get more sleep at night!  I _know_ you don’t get hardly any sleep.  Tucker ratted you out.”

“Yeah, and we all know how he knows _that,_ ” Grif mutters.

Tucker half-rises from his chair until Washington claps a hand on his shoulder to push him back down.

“ _Better Beauty_ doesn’t lie,” Donut tells Wash confidently, holding the magazine open for him to peruse.  “This is all true.  We were going to try and find a way to make you more comfortable so you’d get naked for us-”

Simmons coughs.  “ _Naked_ wasn’t necessary, just out of your armor-”

“-because we wanted you to feel as safe as the rest of us do.   Y’know, what with all the stalking you do around people who talk bad about us-”

“I don’t-”

“-or point guns at us-”

“That was _one t-_ ”

“-so we came up with _Operation: Wash Strip!_   Nice name, right?  And we’d find ways to make you more comfortable so you’d be okay with hanging out with us like a regular guy!  Except _some people,_ ” Donut shoots what passes as a glare for him over his shoulder, “had to turn it into a Red versus Blue thing.”

“Blue versus Red thing,” Caboose corrects.

“A Blue versus Red thing.”  Donut rests his fist on his hip.  “So it was a competition instead of what it was supposed to be.  Which is something to help you.  Because we care about you.”

“Christ,” Grif and Tucker mutter in tandem, looking away.

Wash looks between the soldiers seated around the dingy broom closet.  Caboose fiddling with his fingers, Tucker unable to look him in the eye.  Simmons and Grif occupying the same storage crate, Simmons almost as red as his armor and Grif with his arms folded and his back to them both.  Sarge, of course, looking him dead on with his trusty shotgun across his lap and Donut there at his side, half his face scarred and staring imploringly at Wash’s visor, searching for something to fix upon, seeking eye contact.

Wash stows his rifle and reaches up to take his helmet off.  His face is cherry red but he forces himself with noticeable effort to meet Donut’s eyes.  “ _Operation: Strip Wash_ actually flows a little better.”

Donut beams.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t happen all at once.  Wash takes off his helmet inside of buildings, when there are no windows nearby, when they’re just talking.  He drums his fingers across the top and shifts his weight, snaps around to look at innocent sounds that don’t fit the setting.  The Reds and Blues compensate.  When Wash takes off his helmet they seem to shift, gravitating toward the windows, the exits, their backs to his.   They meet up and leave open the seat that faces the door.  Simmons gets really good at building holographic locks.

Sarge ruffles his hair one day.  Purposefully strips off his own glove and just sinks his fingers in there, ruffles his hair and saunters off with a chortle, leaving Wash there in the wake of devastation as he tries to gather up his feelings and determine what they are.  He remembers a hospital bed.  A book title he’d tried to forget but never, ever will.  He remembers _you get some rest_ and unbunches his shoulders, bit by bit.

Caboose is next, jumping in feet-first as he is wont to do.  They’re sitting down to hang out and watch some garbage sci-fi movie lifted from the libraries of Armonia and Caboose plunks right down next to Wash and presses himself against his side, against his armor like it’s not there, straining until his head rests against Wash’s and Wash gets a whiff of orange juice and sweat and cheap standard-issue shampoo.  He thinks _this cannot be comfortable for him_ and that’s what gets him to unlatch his armor, to pluck off all the pieces on his right side, his chest, and then his left, all the way down to his survival suit.  Caboose rewards him by draping over him like a too-hot blanket and falling asleep on his shoulder.  Wash spends the rest of the movie staying as still as possible, marveling at the tickle of Caboose’s soft curls against his temple.

He’d had contact with all of them before, especially with Caboose and Tucker.  It was inevitable when living in close quarters together, but this was different.  This was born from purpose rather than necessity.  Tucker’s arm over his shoulders, warm and pulling him down because of the difference in their height.  Grif digging an elbow into his side when he spots the cadets doing something stupid.  Simmons, pointed and reserved, offering first his metal then his flesh hand for an awkward handshake.

“I don’t actually want to see your tits,” Epsilon tells him one day, which Wash takes to mean, _I wish I could help with this too but I’m actually pretty glad I can’t because it would be weird._ He’s also glad Epsilon can’t help.  It _would_ be weird.

He doesn’t sleep longer but he does sleep better.  Nightmares become a little less frequent, whittling their numbers down from ‘every other night’ to ‘weekly’ to ‘every other week.’  Wash doesn’t think he wants to eat more but he does remember that he loves lemon meringue pie, and he lusts for it and that gets _Grif_ going and together they complain about not having it.

Donut does his nails again, sans polish, because he massages Wash’s hands afterward and Wash found out that he grips the rifle better when his bones don’t ache so badly.

Sarge keeps ruffling his hair.  The man has a fixation.

Tucker won’t go a single shared firefight without pressing his back up against Wash’s.

Simmons and Caboose almost always flank him in the war room like a pair of sentinels, inches from his shoulders, one lean, one broad.

No, it doesn’t happen all at once.

But it happens, slowly.  It does.

**Author's Note:**

> fic idea from [PrettyArbitrary](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary) because its fuckin HILARIOUS
> 
> and i love writing wash comfort fic okay _fight me_
> 
> EDIT: LOOK AT THIS [MEAN SAD BUT SO BEAUTIFUL ART](http://papanorth.tumblr.com/post/145465908156/hes-probably-going-to-listen-to-it-in-his) THAT [papanorth](http://papanorth.tumblr.com/) DREW!!!! UGHSLFKSJF HIS FACE


End file.
